So it maybe turns out you’ve been calling Alphonse the wrong thing all this time, which is mildly embarassing. “Is it jurvenator starki or juvenator starki?” you ask. “I read an article that said juravenator and now I don’t know.” He looks at you for a second, long enough for you to realize that that’s kind of a rude question, or at least fairly tactless. “Oh,” you say, quelled. “I guess you wouldn’t know. Why would you know?”

He bristles his feathers, the j. starki version of a shrug. “Focus, woman, focus. There are more pressing matters at hand. What do we know of our would-be killer?”

“They weren’t human,” you say. “And not bipedal. The prints are all wrong.”

“Go on,” he purrs.

“And I’d go farther. Look at the gouges here and here–” tapping the pictures with a pen. Alphonse picks his way across the table, nods. “–those are vault marks. I think they’re a dactyl, either Murgatroyd or MacGuillicuddy, they’ve both got motive enough.”

“More than enough. But can we put them there? Motive, yes, means, yes, you’ve spotted the key part, but opportunity, that’s the rub.”